


Paper People, With Lying Eyes

by wildenessat221b



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Bad Parenting, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kid Viktor, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, Very lightly implied domestic violence, Viktor's backstory, implied adultery, yakov is a cool dude
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-14 05:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10529664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildenessat221b/pseuds/wildenessat221b
Summary: At a young age, Viktor realised that he didn't like it at all when people didn't tell the truth - 'used the lying eyes,' he called it. He built up his little family from the people who didn't use them, at least when it mattered.





	1. Paper People, At The Dinner Party

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my dears! Can't thank you enough for checking this out... It's going to be my first multi-chapter work here, so it'd be lovely to hear some feedback... Whether you think it'd be worthwhile to continue, constructive critisism etc, so please do comment. Tags will certainly change as people and scenarios pop up, so heed them! I'm pretty certain that there will be nothing graphic, but remain vigilant just in case. Thanks again, and enjoy!

The piano was loud, the conversation buzzing, the food warm, the wind cold and the people lying. 

Each and every one of them. 

Viktor, at the tender age of nine was already well adept at noticing when people weren't telling the truth. Diplomats flirting with his mother with their fingers crossed behind their backs, wallets bulging in their suit pockets. The way she twirled her hair around her finger, then feigned innocence when her husband rounded the corner. His painted smile when she draped herself over his arm. The way he kissed her on the cheek and pretended he loved her. 

Viktor rolled his eyes. 

He was sat under the dining table, legs crossed and watching the rich, polished feet of his parents' acquaintances. He had his chin rested on his folded hands, and his face set into a pout that he'd be scolded for if anyone looked. His long hair that was only growing longer spilled over his fingers. 

He was supposed to have been in bed hours ago - he'd done his part, been paraded, been flaunted.

('He's a prodigy, dear!'

'At what?'

'Art.'

Not skating, never skating. That's not a boy thing to do.)

But nobody was going to tuck him in, nobody cared if he got a full night's sleep and after all, it was loud and his room was boring. So there he was, silently people watching and picking apart the people from the masks they wore. 

He knew the difference between lies between adults and children, and lies between adults and adults. There was, 'Granny's just a bit sick, she'll get better, darling,' and there was 'I need to work late tonight, don't wait up.' There were sickly sweet smiles, and there were nonchalant smiles of, 'it's no big deal. I'm within my rights.'

But the eyes were always the same. Always detached, never cold exactly, just... Glazed. 

'Viktor?'

His head snapped up, and bashed against the underside of the table. The room swam for a moment, and he let out a small and pitiful whine. He threaded a hand through a clump of hair towards the back of his skull, and gave it a lazy rub as his vision began to clear. Someone had pulled back one of the chairs, and was peering at him from underneath a large hat. 

It was Yakov, the coach he'd begun to train with just a few months previously.

He was a friend of Viktor's Aunt Yana, who had been the first to notice lyricism in Viktor -the delicacy in his touch, the elegance in his legs - and had snuck Viktor to the rink on the quiet when he was five years old. He'd wobbled and stumbled with a grin on his face, and fallen and gotten back up again with the raucous laugh of a trooper. And of course, he'd begged and begged his mother to take him back there, because how could he not? Scolding of Aunt Yana be dammed; he was five years old and had already found a home from home. She'd laughed at the first request, scoffed at the second, then relented at the third, figuring that it was a brief burst of passion from her pinball of a son that would extinguish as quickly as it had lighted. She was wrong. He continued to grow and continued to burn, unprecedented talent the fuel for the fire. He defied expectations left, right and centre. So much so, that her meek, washed-up ballet dancer sister who wrapped everyone in cotton wool was recommending that he be enrolled under the training of her old friend. Her old friend who was a renowned slave driver, with a brutal regime and sharp tongue. 

She hesitated, because surely he was too old for this 'not boy' stuff, when he was taking his first steps into manhood. It was fine when they were tiny, and impossibly cute, but he was growing taller, lankier, and slowly less able to grin away any misdemeanours. But then, she realised that Viktor's passion wasn't going to go away, and perhaps having a 'slave driver' as Yana had so delicately put it as an instructor would install some discipline into him. 

Frankly, he was getting to the 'point everything out, babble and try to catch every fucking butterfly,' phase, and she wanted him to stay put and shut up.

So she began to pay for lessons under Yakov Feltsman, from her husband's pocket. If he asked (when he was home, which wasn't often) where the money was going, she told him with the lying eyes that Viktor was having art lessons. She'd then change the subject, by asking him about the meeting, because she knew that he'd have to use the lying eyes too. 

Viktor liked Yakov, because he never lied. He was always brutal, always truthful and always fair. His honesty meant that he was happy to point out when his free leg was sloppy, happy to point out when his step sequences were messy, and happy to point out when his jumps were poor. But he also gave fair praise, which was well received and planted a warm feeling in Viktor's stomach. His little mind came alive at positive reinforcement, which he hadn't had a great deal of; his parents tended to be stick people rather than carrot. 

The other thing about Yakov was that he was observant - of course he was, it was his job - so it made sense that he was the one to notice the nine year old tucked under the dining table far too late at one of his mother's parties. He was there for Yana, who didn't exactly find her sister to be sterling company, and was just about to leave; he shared a distaste for paper people with Viktor. But then he spotted a small pouting face, and crouched down. He winced when Viktor smacked his head on the table.

'Hi Yakov.'

'Shouldn't you be asleep?'

'Probably,' he pasted the pout back onto his face, 'it's too loud.'

'Still... The grown ups probably want to talk about... Grown up things.'

'They can talk all they want, I can't hear what they're saying. Like I said... It's too loud.'

Yakov sighed. 

'Your Mama told you to go to bed, yes?'

Viktor nodded proudly.

'She also told people I'm a painter. I'm not taking what she says seriously,' he said haughtily, folding his arms. 

Yakov snorted at the defiance of this little person. He felt a flicker of annoyance at Viktor's mother.

'That is a bit... Funny. But I still think you should go to bed.'

Viktor huffed. He didn't move. 

Yakov narrowed his eyes. He thought for a moment, then beckoned Viktor forwards with one finger. 

'How about...' he said lowly, 'I set the record straight. Just for a few people... Tell them that you're not a painter.'

The corner of Viktor's mouth quirked up. He let his pout drop, then half unfolded his legs, stopping with them extended in front of him. 

'You promise?'

'Of course.'

And he wasn't wearing lying eyes.

Viktor smiled then began to crawl out, Yakov wincing as he bobbed up and down. 

'Mind your head,' he gritted out, scrunching his eyes up. Viktor giggled. 

'Yes Coach Yakov.'

He shot Yakov a parting grin, then scampered off, darting behind his oblivious mother's dress and making for the towering stairs of his enormous house, hair floating in a rain loud behind him. 

Yakov shook his head, them grabbed a glass of champagne off a serving tray beside him, figuring he'd need it. Early night off the cards, then. 

Then, he planted a polite smile on his face - his 'I'm collecting sponsors' smile - and began a long line of introductions to rich, lying people, as young Viktor Nikiforov's figure skating coach. 

The poorly masked shock on their faces was wonderful, and Yakov almost wished Viktor had stayed awake to see it.


	2. Paper Parents, On His Day Of Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks for coming back for the second installment, it means the world! Comments much appreciated... They make me unbelievably happy. The tags have changed, so give them a glance. Again, nothing remotely graphic, but a tricky topic or two so read with apprehension. Hope you enjoy!

Of course, Viktor's father found out about his skating once he began to compete. He made his debut at juniors aged thirteen, and didn't tell his father, but wasn't surprised when he picked him up from the competition in his new shiny car, wearing an equally shiny smile and lying eyes. Viktor basked in the knowledge that his medal was even shinier, and didn't say a word as they reversed out of the car park. 

He could have found out at any time; if Ivan Nikiforov was ever oblivious to anything, it was because he chose to be. He knew about the sports results when his team was winning, the affairs of his clients when they were legal, and more about his wife's colourful past than he did her grey present. And apparently, he'd decided that he didn't want to be oblivious to his son's skating anymore. 

'Nice medal, son.'

Viktor pulled his knees up to his chin, and wrapped his arms around his shins as the car rattled along the road. 

'Thanks,' he mumbled. 

'Why didn't you tell me? If you're doing so well?' he asked, with a smile that was full of teeth and cyanide. 

It made Viktor feel sick. 

'Thought you knew,' he said into his knees.

'Hmm?'

'You never asked me. I assumed Mama was telling you the truth.'

Ivan snorted. 

'Your Mama's not the best at that pursuit, you know that. You're a smart boy.'

Viktor very nearly snorted back. "And you're so much better," his mind supplied, plagued by half-memories of his father saying sweet words to women that weren't his mother over the phone in the early hours, but he kept silent. 

'What was she telling them?'

Ivan gave him a look. 

'You know. I can see right through you.'

They were innocent enough words, but Viktor felt a prickle on the back of his neck. His saliva was thick when he replied. 

'I'm a painter.'

'You are. How fitting. Paintings. All... Two dimensional, frivolous, fragile things. Sounds about right,' he said, in a light voice that smelt like acid. 

Viktor clutched his knees tighter with his stomach doing odd things, as his father laughed roughly and hollowly. 

He was still laughing when they pulled up on their massive expanse of gravel drive. Viktor hung back, and let his father go inside first, because it felt like an oddly necessary thing to do, then shut the door behind both of them. 

He toed his shoes off and kicked them behind the door, as his mother appeared in the doorway with a tea towel in hand. She blinked at the sight of her son and husband side by side in the entrance hall. 

'Oh... Both of you. I thought Yakov was bringing you back.'

Viktor shrugged, 'Apparently not.'

Her eyes darted up to Ivan quickly, whose face was impassive. Her hands were twitching around the tea towel.

'How was the-'

'Skating competition,' Ivan cut her off, with the expression of a cat who'd unearthed the forbidden cream, and found it fucking delicious, 'He won, didn't you Viktor?'

Viktor awkwardly held up his medal, and smiled a stiff smile. 

'Well done, darling.'

Ivan and his lying eyes smiled warmly at Viktor. Too warmly. Stiflingly. 

'Yes. Well done. Why don't you go upstairs and find somewhere to put it. Your mother and I need to have a talk.'

Viktor shuffled his feet and looked between his parents but didn't move. 

'Please, Viktor,' he said lowly, like an old-worldly schoolmaster with his fingers hovering over the cane. 

He shuffled his feet one more time, then began to trail up the stairs. His parents watched him go, and stayed watching the ceiling until they heard the door shut. 

Viktor didn't hear much of the conversation, partly because he was separated by a door, a wall and a floor, and partly because he didn't want to. But every now and again, a profanity or an insult would reach his ears and he'd grimace. They were a monotone of white noise, until a certain topic made them grow unusually louder, tensions high and voices raised. 

The topic of 'artistic types,' the implications of boys who skated, and what the government was doing to boys who liked boys. 

Viktor put his hands over his ears. 

The next morning, his mother was wincing when she moved her shoulder in a funny direction, and wearing the lying eyes when Viktor asked if everything was okay. He'd keep skating, she told him. His father didn't mind at all.

Two layers of lying eyes. 

Later that day, Viktor was leafing through a magazine. He'd let his eyes linger over a picture of a singer, a beautiful young thing with crystal eyes and cupid's bow lips. He was dressed in tight, black silk, with the chest open and milky white skin exposed. Viktor felt warmth on his cheeks, which were turning pink at the tops. 

He sensed his father stalk up behind him, and felt his sigh on his neck. 

He went cold. 

'I really can see right through you. So smart. And so stupid.'


	3. Paper Person, In The Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! Thanks for coming back, it means the world! No major tag changes, just a new character, so if you're cool with what's come before, you'll be cool with this. Hope you enjoy, and please comment!

Viktor got himself into a routine, to remain afloat. 

It was well honed, by the time he was fifteen. A lot of time, a lot of effort, a lot of work, a lot of dedication, a lot of turning a blind eye, and a lot of putting on the lying eyes. 

He got up ahead of the sun, ate a light breakfast, went for a run. He weaved through the streets, over the fields, up a hill, looked down and breathed. He got home, sat down for a real breakfast with his Mama, and ignored the look she was giving him over the newspaper because he wasn't going to school anymore. 

When he had turned fifteen, and the possibility of him dropping out became a reality, the house had grown cold. Viktor was their legacy, as much as anything else, and needed to carry on the family name. The family name of academia, of elitism, of slightly corrupt prosper and certainly not of figure skating. At least if he continued with his education, there was the possibility of corrupt, prosperous business ventures as a backup plan. If he threw himself into skating mind, body and soul, he was to their eyes closing doors. 

Viktor, in an act of defiance, let his mathematics grades drop through the floor, and his languages soar, because "there are so many people at competitions!" He handed over his grade sheets with an angelic smile, and watched the twitch of his father's eyebrow carefully. 

Ivan suggested stopping Viktor from skating all together, in a whispered conversation with his wife.She was conflicted and uncomfortable. It was beyond keeping Viktor shut up now, she could see that he loved it. Saw the way he shone, the way his eyes lit up, and there was something warm in it, but she was tired. Tired of arguing with Ivan, and just not passionate enough to fight right away. 

She slept on it. 

She thought about the other women that he thought she didn't know about, and the coldness of the bedsheets, and the coarseness of his hand on that fateful night when he'd struck her on the shoulder after Viktor had won his first gold. 

She also remembered being a little girl who'd wanted to sing, and how she hadn't pursued it and regretted it every day since. 

She remembered dear, sweet Yana, who'd seen greatness in her little boy and put him on blades. Dear, sweet Yana who'd followed her dreams. Dear, sweet Yana who'd been brave when she couldn't.

She awoke with dreams of microphones and grand pianos on her eyelids, then whispered into a drowsy Ivan's ear that she knew about the women, she knew about the illegal clients, and she would happily use both against him in court unless he let Viktor skate. 

He dropped out of school two months later, and Ivan continued to see women at late hours, but only used the lying eyes on Viktor. 

After breakfast, he'd go to the rink and train. He'd jump, he'd spin, he'd fly, faster, faster, faster, higher, higher, higher,  win, win, win, for god's sake, so that it's worth it. 

Yakov's volumes were loud and louder, and his methods harsh and harsher, but Viktor loved him. He verged on fond, with everything he did, and was the epitome of firm but fair. He was good natured about Viktor's rebellion, however much he tried not to be, and to keep a straight face when he did something flamboyant or straight up stupid. 

('The ISU does not want to see you skate to The Spice Girls. I don't know what a Spice Girl is but I'm making a logical guess.'

'It's what the people want!'

'The people don't keep bread in my kitchen, stupid boy.')

The cold ice was so, so much warmer than his cavernous house with the parents that didn't talk. 

He bought a poodle, named him Maccachin, his parents didn't notice until a picture appeared in teen vogue, and after training, he walked him through the streets. He was a beacon of fluffy, wonderful warmth that Viktor loved with all his heart. 

He'd get home, eat dinner with his mother over a stilted and awkward conversation, then go to bed. Sometimes his father would be home, but it was rare. More often than not, Viktor would hear stumbling feet as he was halfway between sleep and awake, and the grumble of a man who was angry with everyone but himself. 

And throughout, at carefully measured intervals, he'd bring Katya home. She was a rink mate, the same age as him, who he'd noticed staring wistfully at a girl sipping coffee in the café. He'd also watched her determinedly tear her gaze away to stare blankly at a muscular boy a few booths away. 

She was beautiful, very beautiful, with big brown eyes and a waterfall of blonde hair. She was sort of... Well composed, the curve of her shoulders elegant against her chest. She was tall, slim,and exactly the sort of girl Viktor Nikiforov would date. 

Viktor had approached her one day, with a dazzling smile, and said, 'Would you like to be my girlfriend?'

She'd gone red, and spluttered, and looked very panicked indeed. She flapped her hands, and choked around a small, '...um-'

'Oh, don't worry!' Viktor had said quickly, with a sort of half chuckle, 'I'm as gay as a maypole.'

She blinked. 

'Oh.'

Another blink. 

'Okay then.'

Viktor smiled. 

'Excellent.'

So every couple of weeks, when his father was feeling guilty and moral enough to eat with his family, Katya would join them for dinner. 

Viktor would smile at her, and so would his parents, hollow and papier-mâché, and all would be well with the world. 

As Viktor grew older, he was starting to understand the appeal of the lying eyes. 

But he still gripped Maccachin at night like a lifeline, and felt like he was slipping from a precipice every time he stiffly kissed Katya on the cheek. 


	4. Paper Parents, And Running From Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all... Thanks for coming back, you're all delightful! I don't think there are any issues raised here that haven't been explored in previous chapters, and the tags haven't changed. It'd be wonderful if you could comment. Thank you again!

It was raining, because of course it was raining; Viktor Nikiforov creates drama wherever he goes and it's hardly the place of the universe to refuse to oblige. He knocked on the door three times quickly, then bowed his head and shoved his hands into his pockets. There was a lengthy wait, and he huffed, squirming as raindrops trickled down his neck. Then finally, he heard grumbling through the door and a rattle of keys. 

'Viktor, it's four in the morning,' grumbled Yakov, with hooded eyes. 

'Is it? Oh,' Viktor replied drily, hunching further into himself.

Yakov pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, then  shook his head to clear it. He frowned, taking in the sodden and dishevelled Viktor standing before him, poodle sitting obediently at his feet with fur plastered over his eyes. 

'Yes... yes it is. Er... come in, I guess.'

'Thank you.'

Viktor wiped his feet on the mat, then toed off his shoes and kicked them behind the door. Then, he removed his coat and started to dry Macca off with the fluffy lining. Yakov waved a tired hand in the air. 

'I'll get a towel to... Do that,' his glassy eyes lingered on Viktor for a moment, before he turned to slouch into the kitchen. He took an old towel from the railing, then rested his forehead on the kitchen cupboard. His brain was still mush, sleep clinging to the corners of his mind, but he scrunched up his eyes and forced himself to gather his thoughts into something resembling coherence. 

Viktor... 4am... Bought the dog... Issues. 

He huffed. 

Towel fisted in his hand, he slumped back into the hall. Viktor had leaned his back against the wall, and was sitting with his legs outstretched and his eyes fixed in the distance and vacant. His hair was falling over his face like curtains. A still wet Macca had his head rested on Viktor's thighs, and was making little huffing noises out of his nose. Yakov gingerly dropped the towel onto his head, making Macca whimper, and Viktor blink out of his trance-like state. 

'Thanks.'

'You're wet too, do you want to-'

'I'm fine.'

Viktor let his eyes drop and started gingerly rubbing Macca's body with the towel. Yakov frowned. 

'Okay... Are you going to tell me why you're here, or just... Sit on my floor, drying the dog?'

'I was rather hoping that I could sleep on your sofa, then tell you in the morning.'

Viktor looked up at him, with big exhausted eyes, and Yakov sighed. 

'Alright.'

Viktor smiled. He tapped Macca under the chin, and he lifted his head, taking his cue to stand when Viktor slid up the wall. 

'I'm going to bed, I'm too old for all-nighters,' Yakov grumbled, turning and beginning his plodding ascent up the stairs. He paused and turned about half way up, 'Oh, and none of that sofa nonsense, the spare bedroom is next to the bathroom. And there are more towels in there, if you're going to be sensible.'

It was four in the morning, he was exhausted and spent, and he was Viktor Nikiforov. Of course he wasn't going to be sensible. 

He curled up under cold, crisp bed sheets with his slightly damp poodle, wearing wet clothes and without tying up his hair. The room consisted of a single bed pushed into the corner, a large wardrobe, a bedside cabinet and a lamp, which he left on while he pushed his nose into Macca's fur. He drifted between sleep and awake, and got up at seven more tired than when he'd gone to bed. 

Yakov was waiting for him in the kitchen with two mugs of black coffee. 

'I needed this, so I supposed you did too. Actually, I could do with Vodka, but you're sixteen and an athlete so I won't taunt you.'

Viktor huffed out a laugh and took the coffee. His smile lowered slowly. 

'I'm sorry. Turning up in the middle of the night wasn't... Good of me.'

'Don't apologise,' Yakov took a sip, then dropped into one of the dining chairs. He motioned for Viktor to sit opposite him, and he pulled out a chair, 'It occurred to me this morning that I should possibly have been more concerned. So... What's happening?'

Viktor sat back in the chair, and let his head loll against the back. He shut his eyes and winced, 'I just had to get away. They're just... Lying, all the time. And they're making me do it too. And I hate it.'

'What do you mean?'

'My mother is having an affair.'

'Oh.'

'My father is having about eight. And his business partners are up to all sorts of illegal shit.'

'Right.'

'Neither of them want me to skate.'

Yakov huffed at that one.

'I'd never have guessed. With their grand total of... zero appearances at your competitions.'

'I know. But they pretend.'

'And that's worse?'

'Yes.'

'Okay.'

Viktor let out a dry laugh.

'I have a girlfriend.'

'I've noticed.'

'I'm gay.'

'I've noticed.'

Viktor opened his eyes, and snapped his head up. Yakov shrugged. 

'Go on.'

Viktor let out a heavy breath. 

'I just... Couldn't be there anymore. And I had nowhere else to go. So I came here.'

'At four in the morning?'

He nibbled at his thumb, then sighed. 

'I heard them talking. They want me to join the army. I'm not joining the army. Can you imagine me wielding a weapon?'

'I can, but it's a funny image.'

'Yakov.'

'Sorry.'

He stood and walked around the table, to stand behind Viktor. He planted his hands on his shoulders firmly, and spoke in a low tone. 

'You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. And I will do everything in my power to protect you from people who think they can control you.'

Viktor felt his eyes well up. 

'What do I do now?' he whispered, rough and desperate. 

Yakov pursed his lips in thought. 

'First, I think you go to your house and get some clothes. And your skates, don't think you're slacking off. Then, you come back here and we go from there.'

Viktor clenched his eyes shut, because he wasn't going to cry. 

'Okay.'

Yakov drove him to his parents' house, and because he was tired of their shit, Viktor climbed through his bedroom window instead of knocking on the door. He shoved some clothes into a hold-all, then grabbed his kit bag. Then, as an afterthought, gathered his medals and nestled them into one of his hoodies. 

Yakov shook his head when he got back into the car. 

'They're not even in, you just wanted to be dramatic.'

'I like heights.'

'Idiot boy.'


	5. Paper Person, Even In Greatness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dudes... Deepest apologies for the slow update... I finished a long-ish fic that has been consuming my life for a good four months, and got a bit overexcited and could think of nothing else! No new tags needed, I don't believe, but let me know if you think I should tag something. Thank you so much for coming back, or for reading this far if you're new! Comments would be much appreciated, and... Hope you enjoy!

Viktor competed at his first Grand Prix Final aged 16, and didn't win but got a taste for the competition. The atmosphere was buzzing in a way that the Juniors couldn't hope to replicate, glowing with the energy of camera flashes and the white noise of commentators who actually cared about the sport they were there to talk about. He felt at home at the enormous rink, with microphones under his nose, even in the crisp hotel room.

This was what he was meant to do.

He also experienced life on the 'big boy' podium for the first time, looking up at two bigger, stronger competitors with a beaming, envious smile. He'd be there soon, he'd make sure of it. 

He also experienced his first Grand Prix banquet, which was less of an experience than he'd thought it would be. He wasn't allowed to get his hands on any alcohol, Yakov and various withered, wrinkled sponsors watching him (the baby of the group) out of the corner of their eyes. It was an evening of loud music and shaking hands, with the odd waitress pinching his cheeks and telling him what a heartbreaker he'd be. 

He just smiled at them. 

Someone else was watching him too... The skater who'd taken gold. Enzo Durand was tall and broad shouldered, with dark eyes and a stooping to his otherwise elegant posture. His fingers were gripping the glass in his hand hard, knuckles turning white, and he looked all too uncomfortable for someone who'd just conquered the world. He watched Viktor intently, eyebrows furrowed, and he felt his gaze prickling on the back of his neck.

Eventually, they caught each other's eyes, and Viktor raised his hand in an awkward wave. Enzo kept his gaze, but beckoned him over with a tilt of his head. Viktor looked over his shoulder, mouth slightly open, then turned back and began to weave between people. Enzo didn't stop watching him the whole time, eyes dropping to his feet as he grew closer. 

'Hi. Congratulations!' Viktor said lightly in French, holding out his hand and plastering an all teeth smile onto his face. 

'Thank you. You too,' Enzo replied, steel face remaining stoic, and tone flat. He took the offered hand and shook it once, firmly. 

'A bronze... Just enough to get me hooked,' he said jovially, letting his hand drop to his side. 

'Hmm... I should hope so,' then a funny thing happened, and a ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. A sad ghost, 'You're good, kid. Very good. Don't burn yourself out.'

Viktor blinked.

'I'm... Only sixteen.'

'You'd be surprised. Keep loving it for as long as you can, yes?'

'I... Yes.'

'Good. Because you look like me. I don't know what it is, but... You look like me.'

'Thank you.'

'Thank you?'

Viktor huffed out a nervous laugh. 

'You've got a gold.'

Another small smile. 

'Yes, I have. And you said it yourself, you're hooked. You'll be here soon. Just... Be careful. Keep loving it. Careful,' he turned to leave, then changed his mind and opened his mouth, 'For the record, I'm only twenty.'

Viktor watched him go, melting into the crowds who thought he had it all, and made quite the effort to forget most of what he'd said, and focus on the congratulations and assurance that he'd be on top of the world soon. And that was coming from the best. 

He had a hotel room to himself, and he was sixteen years old, so it was a mess. His suitcase lay upside down next to the wardrobe rather than inside it, still full of clothes. The bedside table was shoved asymmetrically into the middle of the room, and the rug had ridden up from where he'd pushed the bed against the wall, both in an attempt to be as close to the radiator as possible. There was of course, a primal instinct of Russian pride about being able to withstand the cold, but Colorado is fucking freezing in winter, and he had nobody to share with, so he unashamedly huddled against it at night. 

His back was pressed into the burning heat, head still impossibly cold, in the early hours, when he received a text from his girlfriend. 

//"Congratulations!!! My well done present... I've moved out and got a girlfriend wooooooooo!!! So I guess we don't need to do the dating thing anymore. See you soon!"//

Viktor snorted out of his nose. 

//"Congratulations to you too!!! Um... Yeah I guess. Cool. See you soon!!"//

It crossed his mind that it was normal to feel sad about these things, but he just saw it as something crossed off the list... A lie he wasn't telling anymore. He hoped that his parents (bittersweetly absent thus far... He'd half hoped they'd at least call) would have the courage to embark on a list of their own. 

Walking back to the airport, Yakov at his shoulder and feet trailing in the snow, he passed a billboard with Enzo's smiling face on it. He was imposing, majestic, and wearing lying eyes. 

'You look like me. I don't know what it is but... You look like me.'

He thought about it on the plane home, and kept thinking about it, until he got back to Yakov's house and was tackled by too many kilos of fluffy poodle, with a neighbour looming over him promising she hadn't overfed him. 

Viktor gave Macca a disapproving look. 

He licked him on the cheek. 


End file.
